te me."

I had to set up between us, as much for me as for you, an insurmountable
barrier.

I wrote to Prudence to say that I accepted the proposition of the Comte
de N., and that she was to tell him that I would sup with her and him.
I sealed the letter, and, without telling him what it contained, asked
your father to have it forwarded to its address on reaching Paris.

He inquired of me what it contained.

"Your son's welfare," I answered.

Your father embraced me once more. I felt two grateful tears on my
forehead, like the baptism of my past faults, and at the moment when I
consented to give myself up to another man I glowed with pride at the
thought of what I was redeeming by this new fault.

It was quite natural, Armand. You told me that your father was the most
honest man in the world.

M. Duval returned to his carriage, and set out for Paris.

I was only a woman, and when I saw you again I could not help weeping,
but I did not give way.

Did I do right? That is what I ask myself to-day, as I lie ill in my
bed, that I shall never leave, perhaps, until I am dead.

You are witness of what I felt as the hour of our separation approached;
your father was no longer there to support me, and there was a moment
when I was on the point of confessing everything to you, so terrified
was I at the idea that you were going to bate and despise me.

One thing which you will not believe, perhaps, Armand, is that I prayed
God to give me strength; and what proves that he accepted my sacrifice
is that he gave me the strength for which I prayed.

At supper I still had need of aid, for I could not think of what I was
going to do, so much did I fear that my courage would fail me. Who would
ever have said that I, Marguerite Gautier, would have suffered so at the
mere thought of a new lover? I drank for forgetfulness, and when I woke
next day I was beside the count.

That is the whole truth, friend. Judge me and pardon me, as I have
pardoned you for all the wrong that you have done me since that day.

Chapter 26

What followed that fatal night you know as well as I; but what you can
not know, what you can not suspect, is what I have suffered since our
separation.

I heard that your father had taken you away with him, but I felt sure
that you could not live away from me for long, and when I met you in the
Champs-Elysees, I was a little upset, but by no means surprised.

Then began that series of days; each of them